The Five Time Sherlock Held John
by Dark3Star
Summary: ... and the one time John held Sherlock. OR, The five times John saw and the one time he observed.
1. The River

**Okay so maybe I shouldn't be doing this seeing how I'm in the middle of a multi-chapter right now. However, my Beta will only edit so much of that at a time. (Trust me, I've been getting a lot written for "This Doesn't Feel Like Falling"). That is a big project and I won't present it without beta approval. This small collection, however, I feel confident posting now and letting my Beta review this when he gets around to it.**

**So, I apologize for grammatical errors in advance, and I hope that you enjoy the story.**

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Chapter 1: The river

The cab ride home seemed unusually shaky. Or maybe that was him. The final chase of this great case had resulted in John being thrown in the Thames before Sherlock managed to overpower the criminal.

Sure the police had fished him out and given him one of those stupid orange blankets, but it was bleeding February.

The police and Sherlock had tried to convince him to go to the hospital, but John had adamantly refused. Sure hypothermia was setting in, but a night under warm blankets would fix that right as rain and he would be a hell of a lot more comfortable in his own damn bed. Being a doctor, John knew there was relatively little, outside of prescribing, he could do for people that they couldn't do for themselves.

John felt an arm coil tightly around his side and pull him closer to Sherlock. He looked unsteadily up into his flat mate's gray/blue eyes, his breath coming out in short puffs and he shivered.

"Can't have you freezing to death," Sherlock murmured.

John expected Sherlock to let him go once they reached 221B Baker Street. He didn't. Sherlock may have paid the cabbie before dragging John inside, but John was having some trouble focusing. Things had gone all swimmy.

Somehow, they must have clamored up the stairs, John felt himself being laid down on a bed. Sherlock's bed, it had to be, it smelled like him.

John felt hands on him, pulling his sodden clothes off, and he let it happen. It was the right thing to do for hypothermia, and he was in no position to argue.

"Lift up, John," Sherlock murmured and his hands grasped the clothing at John's waist. John struggled to comply. It must have been enough because he felt his trousers and pants come away. Sherlock must have already gotten his socks and shoes.

John turned his head and pressed it into the bedding. Flannel; very practical for this time of year.

With Sherlock's help he maneuvered himself into the bed properly. He didn't think he could coordinate his limbs to pull the sheets over himself; luckily Sherlock took care of that.

John made out some disjointed noises and the sound of voices then. Probably Mrs. Hudson. She always did worry too much.

John hissed when he felt hot water bottles being pressed against his skin, under the blankets. They burned and he tried to kick them away.

There were voices talking and then retreating footsteps. He hoped they weren't going to take him to the hospital after all; he really would be fine.

A blast of cool air hit him as the sheets lifted slightly and John cringed. Then the bed dipped, and Sherlock slid under the sheets with him. Sherlock wound his arms around John's middle again, and pulled John flush to him. 'Sherlock is naked,' John mused to himself. And then he decided it didn't matter because Sherlock was also deliciously warm. He squirmed further into their embrace, shoving his toes under Sherlock's claves, his fingers under Sherlock's arms, and his freezing nose into Sherlock's neck. Sherlock allowed this without protest.

He felt the baritone rumble in Sherlock's chest and knew the consulting detective was speaking to him. John couldn't quite make it out make it out, but it was comforting all the same. Sherlock's warmth, his steady heartbeat, and the soft rumbling of his voice slowly lulled John to sleep.

* * *

Bright winter sunlight peeked around the edges of Sherlock's curtains and dappled his bedroom. John sighed and stretched, reviling in the wonderful warmth of the room. It wasn't hot by any means, just comfortably warm. John realized, as he stretched, that the flannel sheets and blankets-there were a surprising number of blankets-had fallen to his waist, and his pillow was breathing.

John slowly opened his eyes and saw a flat chest sprinkled with dark, curly hair. He blinked and looked up to see Sherlock smiling down at him. Right, last night. It was slowly coming back to him. Sherlock had protected him. He'd done everything right and saved John from an uncomfortable trip to the hospital. John returned Sherlock's smile. "Good morning," he murmured.

"Morning," Sherlock replied. "How are you feeling?"

John rested his head back on Sherlock's chest, closed his eyes and 'hmmed' contentedly. "Warm," he replied. Perhaps he would normally be embarrassed being naked and in bed with Sherlock. Not this morning, however. He was more comfortable than he'd been in days and Sherlock didn't seem to mind. That was a nice thing about Sherlock, he never read anything more into a situation than there was. Last night he had climbed naked into bed to keep John warm without a second thought. Now, well, if he wasn't equally warm and comfortable he was at least content to let John remain so.

Sherlock chuckled softly and John felt the consulting detective's nimble fingers tracing patterns along his back. "You gave Mrs. Hudson quite a scare,"

John shrugged and the movement turned into a stretch where his legs twined further with Sherlock's. "I'll go apologize in a bit."

Sherlock shifted slightly underneath him and John felt a soft kiss being pressed to the top of his head. "Sleep as long as you want," Sherlock murmured.

John smiled, and did just that.


	2. Restless

Chapter 2: Restless

John winced as he made a slow turn around the living room. He was exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to climb the steps to his room and sink into sweet oblivion. His leg, unfortunately, had different ideas.

Shortly after he'd laid down for the night his left leg seized in a vicious cramp. John had cursed, struggled out of sheets, and stumbled down the steps to the living room. The only way to deal with the night cramps he occasionally got was to walk in slow circles until his muscles admitted defeat.

He hadn't struggled with cramps in a long time, especially since he'd moved in with Sherlock. However he had done a lot of running recently and today had been a particularly long day at the clinic.

John hissed in pain and bounced his weight on his errant right leg. The muscle eased, but only slightly. He sighed and continued another lap of the living room. His cramp was still too strong to sit or stand still.

John was just passing the couch when his offending leg was grabbed out from under him. John let out a soft cry of surprise as he sprawled backwards onto the couch. He glared at Sherlock who was currently looming over him with John's cramping leg between his long fingers.

"Sherlock what are you-ah!" John grimaced as Sherlock forcefully kneaded his trembling calf muscle.

"You're pacing was keeping me up," Sherlock murmured, digging his knuckles into stubborn muscle, "This will be quicker than letting you work it out on your own."

As a doctor, John couldn't disagree. As a person, he'd never been able to sit through someone massaging a cramp away. He struggled reflexively, but Sherlock held him down with a strength that was constantly surprising the ex-army doctor.

Sherlock braced John's foot against his shoulder and leaned down, working the rest of the leg muscles with his hands. "Relax, John, let me in."

"Ah! Oooh, Sherlock!" John cried out reflexively as Sherlock massaged his muscles into submission.

"Relax," Sherlock instructed, "You can take it."

John let out a heartfelt groan as he felt his muscle finally give way to Sherlock's insistent touch.

Sherlock eased up a bit pressure wise and maneuvered so he was sitting on the couch with John's legs over his lap. "Stay where you are," Sherlock insisted and his fingers continued to massage John's leg.

John moaned softly as Sherlock's fingers continued to work on him, eventually shifting lower to rub his feet.

"Do you like that?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," John murmured as he felt Sherlock's talented fingers working out another tense knot.

Sherlock continued for far longer than John thought he would. Sherlock's soft, talented fingers, where the last thing on John's mind before sleep found him.

...

Waking up with Sherlock pressed against him the next morning was a great deal less confusing than the odd smiles Mrs. Hudson sent him the rest of the week when she thought he wasn't looking.


	3. Illness

Chapter 3: Illness

He wasn't dead, John knew that much. Dead wouldn't hurt like this. With monumental effort John heaved himself to the side of the bed and threw up violently into the bucket there.

John was in Sherlock's bed, again. Sherlock had insisted when John nearly fell trying to rush down the steps towards the bathroom.

Now that he thought about it Sherlock was being surprisingly accommodating. John was fairly certain he'd caught the flu the old fashioned way, and not from one of Sherlock's experiments. Still, after everything they'd been through together, it was nice to know Sherlock had his back as much as he had Sherlock's.

The consulting detective was, at this very moment tracing small circles on John's back with his fingers. John wouldn't admit it, but he was glad Sherlock was with him. It was awful being sick alone.

He heaved a sigh of relief as his stomach settled once more.

The bed creak as Sherlock stood. He walked around the bed, knelt by John's head and handed him a glass of water from the nightstand. "Rinse, then take a small sip," he instructed. John obeyed, grateful to clean his mouth out. John spit into the bucket then took a small sip of water. He hoped this one would stay down.

Sherlock took the water glass and handed John a small cup of mouthwash. John gave a fatigued smile of thanks before rinsing his mouth out once more. He knew the mouth wash was for his comfort, not Sherlock's. Sherlock had the iron stomach of a doctor after all his experiments and all the crime scenes he's witnessed.

John lay on his back then and listened to the sounds of Sherlock cleaning the bucket out and replacing it. He really was a good friend. John would have to thank him when he was better.

The bed dipped slightly and John knew Sherlock was beside him again. The ex-army doctor gasped in surprise and pleasure when a cold washcloth was pressed to his head. He still had a fairly elevated fever and the cloth felt heavenly. John turned his head to give more access as the cloth slipped down his neck and onto his chest (he wasn't wearing a shirt).

John surrendered to the sensations and allowed Sherlock to nearly lull him to sleep with his careful ministrations. He was, however, awake enough to feel Sherlock slide his hand into John's and return the small squeeze it gave. That small squeeze spoke volumes. John knew he wasn't alone.


	4. Injury

Chapter 4: Injury

John glared at the floor as the police detectives moved around him.

Sherlock's latest case had resulted in one of their wildest chases ever, through a full warehouse.

John was as fit and nimble as the next guy, but when he'd seen the criminal pull a gun and aim it at Sherlock he'd panicked and lost his footing. It was stupid. If he'd just kept going he could've easily closed the gap and pulled his own gun to protect Sherlock. Instead he'd tumbled head over heels and landed with a badly sprained ankle.

Sherlock had been fine, of course. When wasn't he?

And now John was sitting relatively alone, on the hard cement floor while the police tided up and Sherlock was brilliant.

Sudden movement next to him caused him to turn his head. John brightened considerably when he saw Sherlock kneeling down next to him. "Ready to go?" the consulting detective asked.

"Absolutely," John replied, "Just give me a hand up and we can be on our way."

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't think so," he murmured. That was all the warning John received before Sherlock slid forward and lifted John into his arms.

"Sherlock!" John protested, but it was in vain as the younger man was already standing up. John slipped an arm around Sherlock's neck to steady himself.

John heard a few chuckled from the surrounding officers as they noticed Sherlock carrying him out of the crime scene bridal style. John blushed and pressed his face into Sherlock's shoulder. He could hear Sherlock chuckling softly.

"We'll be home soon. I'm sure you can guide me through bandaging you ankle."

John nodded a smiled. He might get teased for it later but he didn't care. Sherlock's arms were much preferable to the cold, hard floor.


	5. Pain

Chapter 5: Pain

John sat on the couch in 221B Baker Street with his eyes closed and his head in his hands. He wasn't sure he could blame this colossal headache on Sherlock, but he was going to try.

His damned flat mate had been a terror all week. Moody, experimenting, stupid running around on stupid cases, interrupting John at work, no sleep-NONE-for three days. John had had enough. Even if they weren't in-between cases at the moment John would not be dragged out of the apartment for anything.

At least Sherlock wasn't doing anything more annoying than typing away on his computer. Then that also stopped. Fine. Silence was good.

The couch shifted as Sherlock sat beside him and, surprisingly gently, drew John to lie back. John went without complaint; he didn't have the energy. He ended up laying cradled against Sherlock with his back to Sherlock's front, and Sherlock lying back on the couch.

Long, cool fingers pushed John's aside and began rubbing small circles against John's temples. Ah, _that_ felt better. John relaxed into Sherlock and let him work.

Soon John felt his pain easing and small tingles breaking out down his arms and back. It was a long time, John couldn't say how long, before Sherlock's fingers final left his head. When they did, he had no more pain. John opened his eyes, reached out, and wrapped Sherlock's arms around him.

Sherlock didn't protest; in fact, John could feel him smiling into his hair. This was the first time John was choosing to fall asleep against Sherlock on purpose without being sick or injured. He couldn't say exactly what that meant, but it felt good. That was enough, for now.


	6. Mine

Chapter 6: Mine

They should've been alone when it happened. Warm and safe in their apartment. It would've been fine if it happened on an adrenaline high after a good case. Hell, even in the thrill of the moment when Sherlock had been in danger, John would have been able to see that coming.

That last place he ever though he would stake his claim on one Sherlock Holmes was during a press conference, after all danger and adrenalin had passed. There was no chance for privacy now. But that skinny blond bitch of a reported had saddled up to _his_ consulting detective in the middle of the bloody press conference and _touched _him.

"So Mr. Holmes," She began in a sultry, 1940's Hollywood voice, "Is there anyone," she paused to lick her full red lips, "special waiting at home for you after your latest victory?" Sherlock looked as stoic and bored as always, but John could feel his discomfort.

John Watson strode forward and yanked Sherlock backwards, away from that snake of a women, and into his arms. "Sherlock Holmes is mine!" he declared.

The shocked face of the reported, and everyone else for that matter, brought John back to reality. Oh God, what was he _doing_?

Before he had a chance to second guess himself Sherlock turned in his arms. John looked up and met a smiling pair of blue/gray eyes.

"I thought you might never say that," Sherlock murmured.

And then Sherlock was kissing him. The reporters, the flashing lights, all of that vanished for John, obliterated by the feel of soft lips against his. John pulled Sherlock closer to him, tangling his fingers in thick black curls, and opening his mouth in invitation Sherlock's warm, wet tongue slid against his, and John moaned into the kiss. There were no more questions, no more doubts, just Sherlock and him, like it was meant to be.

* * *

John snuggled happily into Sherlock's side over breakfast the next morning. Sherlock was in an exceptionally good mood as well, he was even eating. John 'hmmed' happily and sipped his tea.

"We made the front page," Sherlock observed.

John glanced up to the paper and immediately blushed. Oh Lord, there it was. On the front page of this, and probably several other papers, in full color, was an image of Sherlock and himself snogging the daylights out of each other.

Sherlock smiled and leaned down to nip lightly at his blogger's ear. "That's nothing to be embarrassed about," he murmured.

John turned to look at Sherlock, still flushed.

Sherlock dropped his voice a few octaves as he slid his hand into John's robe. "Last night on the other hand..."

John had the forethought to place his teacup back on the table before dragging Sherlock back into his own room for a repeat performance.

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**Yay, got this done all in one night! I hope the grammatical errors weren't too grievous; and that you enjoyed the story!**


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